Heart Of Thorns
by slayst
Summary: Changing one's fate is easy. Getting it back is another matter entirely.


Welcome, dear readers, to "Heart Of Thorns", a brand new crossover between 'Brave' and the 'Elder Scrolls' universe.

I hope you'll have a good time reading this.

* * *

Briar Heart

* * *

_"Heart of thorn... bones of the wild... in life, Forsworn... rise from death, Blood of our Blood."_

* * *

The instant she awoke, Merida could tell she wasn't in her room.

Unknown smells evoking an apothecary's workshop were assaulting her nose. Gone were her cozy bed, warm cotton linens, plump pillows and general comfortableness. Instead, she laid stark naked on cold hard stone in some crudely hollowed-out cave of sort, a soggy sack of hay under her hurting head and a rusty shackle around her left ankle.

Trying to ignore her current state of undress, the sixteen-year-old girl fought the skull-splitting throbbing at her temples and attempted to open her eyes. It proved futile and left her blinded, red-hot nails of light momentarily frying her brain. She made to move, to rub the pain away from her eyes, but stopped immediately, a primal scream escaping her throat as her whole body flared up like one giant wound.

She was dying. Or at least, it felt like it.

According to her nerves, her head was presently squished in between two massive war hammers, her limbs were on fire and her chest had lost so much blood that it had gone completely numb.

The pain faded altogether after just five seconds, but had been so excruciating that her scream stretched on for seemingly an eternity, leaving her gasping for breath.

"Stupid girl."

Merida froze at the raspy, almost alien chuckle.

"Change goes deep, takes time to work. Red girl moves now, she dies." continued the voice on a more serious tone. "Petra wants red girl alive. Don't move."

The Princess of DunBroch inched her face toward the voice and forced her eyes open once more, trying to discern her abductor's face despite the blinding light. Shapes formed, colors slowly pouring in as the unusual brightness decreased to supportable levels and her sight finally cleared. She almost wished it hadn't.

Behind the rusty iron bars of her cell – because yes, she was holed up in an actual _prison cell_ – stood the ugliest creature she'd ever seen. Hunched over, its ashen skin stretched over sickly thin bones, extremities covered in black feathers and ending in deadly talons, a hideous woman was glaring at her with beady black eyes.

"Witch." breathed Merida, the word sending a sudden sting of pain through her brain, awakening a string of buried memories.

She'd ridden Angus through the forest, followed Will O' the Wisps to an old cottage and met an old wood carver. She remembered spotting the woman's lie, outing her as a witch, though one looking a lot more human than the present monstrosity. She'd bought her entire stock of carved goods, in exchange for a spell to change her fate and escape the political betrothal to the lesser clans' heirs that her parents wanted for her.

Her parents, they had warned her against Will O' the Wisps and magic in general. But had she listened? Of course not, she'd asked a witch for another fate. One blackout later and here she was, naked and bound, at the nonexistent mercy of a nightmarish hag. Talk about a change of fate.

"Red girl should watch her tongue." warned the witch, flames coursing on her outstretched hand. "The coven needs red girl alive, but Petra can still cook her hands in a stew."

The teenager forced herself not to gag at the creature's putrid breath. Judging from the stench, she had no problem believing that it fed on human meat.

Under the threat of dismemberment and stew, Merida's mind started working at full speed, trying to find a way out of her predicament, questions reeling back and forth. Why was her body hurting so much when she tried to move? Where were her belongings? Was her kidnapping coincidental, or planned? Had the other witch purposely sent her to this hag, or had she merely sent her here. Where _was_ here anyway? How much time had passed since that encounter? Had she been unconscious for an hour, a day or a week? Why had she even been unconscious in the first place? Had the witch knocked her out with a spell, or had she tasked her broom to do it?

In the end, one question imposed itself.

"You need me alive, why?"

The creature's mouth twisted into an arrogant smile, displaying her rotten teeth.

"Red girl survived the Change. Red girl is Petra's greatest achievement." it explained proudly, pointing at the princess' body. "Red Girl will be great test subject for the coven."

Following the creature's crooked finger, Merida searched her nude body for that _Change_ she'd supposedly survived. A spot of white attracted her eyes under her left arm and bile rose in her throat when she registered exactly _what_ she was seeing.

Her armpit was gone, replaced by a gaping hole burying under her chest. Three ribs - her own? - poked out of her bloodied skin and covered the wound, only marginally preventing access.

Merida threw up right away, barely moving her head the other way in time. She was deathly injured already, there was no need to vomit in the wound and add mortal infection to her list of ailments.

"Wha… what did you do to me?" she gasped, repulsed.

"Petra improved you." cackled the witch. "Now stop moving. Petra makes potion and your screams distract her."

The hag turned away and retreated deeper into the cavern.

Merida was left alone, naked and in chains, waiting for death to claim her.

* * *

Three days passed before the redhead registered that she hadn't eaten, drunk nor… eliminated anything since regaining consciousness.

Her previously muted stomach briefly protested the abuse the second she remembered it, but the princess endured thirst and hunger for two more days before the hag deigned to feed her any sustenance. Merida didn't dare ask what made up the stew.

Truth be told, her meal's previous name and her ability to somehow ignore basic human needs weren't exactly priorities, seeing as she half-expected – and hoped – to drop dead at a moment's notice.

After five days of almost complete immobility in a cell, her wound should have oozed every last drop of blood, pus and other body fluids in her body, leaving her nothing but an infected empty _husk_. By all accounts, she should have been dead.

But the carved skin, raw as it was, was incomprehensibly clean and Merida was very much alive.

Except she wasn't. How could she be anything _but_ dead, when her heart had been removed from her chest?

After her awakening, the girl had found herself morbidly fascinated by her seemingly impossible injury and had painfully stuck her fingers in between two ribs. In place of her heart, she'd brushed a rough, thorny thing feeling much like a fruit of sort, alive in its own right… and absolutely incapable of keeping her alive. Whatever that thing was, it had to be a result of dark magic for she knew no other way to _reanimate the dead_.

The curse of undeath, such was her fate now. Her heart had been removed and her corpse had been turned into a puppet by the witch.

Would she ever be freed from her pitiful state? Be returned to life or allowed to die? Would she reunite with her family, in this life or the next, and get to ask for their forgiveness?

The young girl refused to believe otherwise, even if her body simply _locked up_ whenever she tried to remove the impossible heart and was subjected to _excruciating_ pain for merely thinking about _betraying_ her torturer. Bloody defense mechanism.

But it didn't matter, she may not be able to end her own unlife, but even naked, weaponless, recuperating from whatever ritual that had turned her, she was getting _extremely_ familiar with pain. She would rest, gather her strength, endure that mockery of life and wait for an opportunity, for their fates were linked now.

The witch _would_ die - how and by whom didn't matter - and Merida would get to rest.

It was only a matter of time.

* * *

Calculating eyes darted to the cave's entrance as the telltale sounds of the witch's talons clicking on the cavern floor warned Merida of her warden's arrival.

It had been four days since her last visit. At least, she believed so. How long had she been captive by now anyway? She'd long since lost track of time. Days had turned into weeks, weeks had probably turned into months.

Merida had tried to find some solace in slumber, only to realize yet again that her physiology had been so heavily modified that her body just disregarded the need to sleep. While it would have made dealing with the triplets easier, uninterrupted consciousness had only turned her ordeal into a living nightmare.

"Red girl will come with Petra." ordered the creature as it came into view. "Petra brings red girl to the coven."

The once Princess of DunBroch pitifully rose from her lying position, acknowledging the order in silent obedience. A tentative step toward her cage's door made her wince in pain and her knees buckled under her. Her teeth grinding, she forced herself to stand and walked up to the door, her unused muscles screaming in protest.

Truth be told, it was but an act.

After alternating between screaming bloody murder at the smallest movement and locking itself up in an almost complete paralysis for so long, her broken body should have atrophied.

It hadn't.

Ever so slowly, her strengths had returned and a reasonable - if simplistic - plan had formed in her head, clearer by the day. Basically, she'd done absolutely nothing. She'd obediently stayed in her cell and observed the ceiling, waiting for an opportunity.

_This_ opportunity.

The witch was finally allowing her out of her cell, looking positively thrilled to finally show its _masterful_ work to its coven. Hopefully, that pride would sufficiently distract it for Meridia to attempt… something. Anything. She was a realistic girl, realistic enough her father would say, and it was clear that if her chances to untangled herself from the claws of her deranged captor were slim, those chances would pummel if they ever reached their destination, swarmed by an entire congregation of them.

She had to get out now, or die trying.

Ignoring its prisoner's thoughts, the creature came within arm's reach and produced an old iron key from somewhere on its person. Apparently confident in its captive's frailty, it unlocked the manacle keeping her chained to the wall, before tying her hands together with filthy linen, leaving enough length to double as a leash that the witch grabbed without hesitation. The undead girl was then roughly lead out of the room and through the creature's den, the natural cave soon opening up into what looked like a old abandoned bastion.

The walls were cracked and partially collapsed, the doors had long since rotten away and every single corner was packed with spider webs over an assortment of pilled miscellaneous items, from upturned tables, a broken bed frame and empty bookcases to a battered cooking pot filled with blood-caked human skull. Nothing even _remotely_ useful as a makeshift weapon, which really left her with only two choices. Wait some more… or make due with what she had on hands.

The pair reached what had to be the last functioning door in the entire structure - beside the cell's - and the witch pushed it open with its talons. A gush of fresh, somewhat cold air rushed into the structure and Merida decided to act.

Rushing her oblivious warden, the sixteen year old passed her bound arms around its neck and threw herself forward, sending them both sprawling on the ground. A loud squawk escaped the creature at the impact, followed by a muffled gurgling sound when Meridia's weight pressed on its feathery back in an attempt to _strangle the bloody thing to death._

It immediately began to struggle, bending its arms backward to claw blindly at the redhead, but she ignored the wounds opening on her flesh. The sharp pain induced by her new heart for the _rebellion_ was already greater than what her _mistress_ was inflicting, and even that still paled in comparison to her burning determination.

It would die.

Here!

_Now!_

Realizing the futility of its attempt at shredding her to ribbons, the witch switched tactics and her right hand erupted into flames, sending gouts of fire at the naked girl's unprotected back. She felt the heat roll on her skin, cooking it, setting her hair ablaze.

Still, she ignored it. Oh, she definitely felt every moment of it, her nerves screaming at the abuse, but ending the abomination took precedence and the pain threshold of her undead body was absurd. She would suffer later.

The confrontation continued for a time, the witch hurling lessening tongues of fire at Merida's back while she kept tightening her hold on its frail neck. The hag's breath ultimately came short and its body went limp.

Merida didn't relinquish her grip for a long moment. And then, cautiously, she felt for its breath. Its pulse. Any sign that it lived still.

Nothing.

She'd… done it? She was free?

"...it's -" she whispered, disbelief and relief evident in her voice. "- it's dead."

"And you're not."

The foreign voice took Merida by surprise and she looked up from the corpse, startled.

Standing not ten feet away was a man, clad in garments made out of beasts' skins crudely stitched together. A deer skull adorned his head, like some sort of tribal helmet, and he was visibly armed with primitive-looking axes. But the most startling detail had to be his chest. It was carved out and where one would expect to find a heart, she could see a thorny seed the size of her fist.

He was… like her?

"Peace, girl. I mean you no harm." the stranger reassured her, his accent utterly foreign to the Scottish Princess.

She opted to remain silent, taking her time to evaluate the exact threat he represented. She was badly injured already and had little desire to initiate another fight in her condition.

"I see that matriarch Petra actually succeeded." he commented, unashamedly staring at her chest… no, at the hole burying under it. "The coven will be pleased, especially considering what you just accomplished. To kill a matriarch… that is no easy feat."

Wait, he was _praising_ her? Why? Wasn't he working _for_ the witches' coven?

"That you survived the attempt without your briar heart spearing your body from the inside out is even more baffling. The old gods favor you, sister."

That word hit a nerve.

"I'm _not_ your sister." she hissed, glaring daggers at the warrior.

"But you are." he replied, dismissing her anger like one would a newborn kitten's. "By our vows, we are Forsworns and in rebirth, we became Briarhearts. We share the same roots, the same desires, the same fire in our soul. We are family, denying it is futile."

And _that_ hit an entire nerve cluster.

"We are not FAMILY!" she snarled. "I am no _Forsworn_, whatever that may be, and I certainly _don't_ share your roots or desires. I was _kidnapped_ and turned into an abomination when that _thing_ -" she spat at the witch. "- used her vile arts on me, while you seem happy to serve her and her kind. I want nothing to do with you or your coven, _Briarheart_."

The man regarded her in silence for a few seconds before seemingly reaching a decision.

"So be it."

Rummaging in his furs, he retrieved a small vial of crimson liquid and deposited it on the ground.

"Healing potion." he explained idly. "I cannot pretend to comprehend the gods' purpose in letting you live, but I shall respect it."

And on that, he turned around and descended the dirt path snaking away from the bastion.

"You'll find the barbarians' city to the west." he called back. "Safe travels, renegade. Pray that we do not meet again."

She was left behind, with the corpse of the monstrous woman for only company.

* * *

Merida waited all of two minutes before moving away from the dead witch and getting the offered 'potion', downing it in one go. She'd reasoned that if the man had actually wanted her dead, he would have just used his weapons instead of poisoning her.

And so, the Briarheart proved to be faithful, the vial being exactly what he'd claimed: a healing potion.

Most of her wounds closed at an unnatural pace, fresh, somewhat raw skin replacing bloodied tears and flesh ribbons. The burns on her back receded too, her unevenly burnt hair remaining the only indicator of her brush with the creature's elemental power.

Feeling better - though significantly less so than prior to the fight - the undead girl retreated into the witch's hideout, dragging the corpse with her and closing the door. She planned to travel to "the barbarians' city" - because anyone considered a barbarian by someone like the Briarheart had to be of more pleasant company - but to do that, she would need provisions and garments, preferably a weapon too. And so, she would loot the place to the ground first.

Breaking her bonds on the creature's talons, she set to explore the den, discovering its nest and a small laboratory of sort, along with caved-in kitchens.

Her rummaging revealed a grand total of one old tattered robe - that she'd had to pillage from a shriveled corpse - and absolutely nothing else in term of clothing. She improvised a cloak with a set of heavily stained bed sheets and made due with linen wrappings in place of shoes, leaving her dreading the upcoming journey. In term of weapons, she found a ritualistic knife made of some dark, unpolished stone, buried to the handle in a human heart in the laboratory. Speaking of the laboratory, she had no interest for the plants and animal parts, nor in any of the bottled potions. Yes, having a healing concoction on hand would be welcome, but how was she supposed to discern it from paralytics or lethal poisons? As for the books and notes gathered in the nest, she found none with an immediate interest to her and had no way to haul them with her. In the end, she decided to leave them behind and went to grab what little could be found in the collapsed kitchen. A few loaves of breads, some dried meat of unknown origin - don't think about it, don't think about it - and a gourd of… was that stagnant water? It was, great.

Armed with her supplies - _supplies_, yeah, right - she exited the structure and took a look at her surroundings. The outside world was fairly normal, all things considered. The old dungeon was built on the flank of a moderately-sized mountain range, opened up upon a small valley covered in scrubby vegetation. Snow topped the largest peaks behind her, along with the few massive ones dotted on the horizon. Civilisation was, as far as Meridia could assert, nonexistent, apart from another seemingly abandoned bastion occupying a distant ravine.

A perfectly inconspicuous retreat, in an equally inconspicuous environment.

Glancing at the sun's to direct herself, the sixteen year old began her long walk to the west, firmly holding her stone knife.

* * *

Hours passed and Merida finally left the dirt paths she'd been navigating for a paved road.

Good news, she was on her way to civilisation. Bad news, night was approaching and she'd already crossed path with two rats the size of dogs and a lone wolf who'd probably smelled the rats' blood on her robes. It had gained a second coat.

She was tired, mentally if not physically - thanks, unholy undead body - and wanted nothing more than to take a hot bath, collapse in a bed and sleep until morning. The redhead heaved a sigh and pushed her wishful thinking away. It wouldn't do to be distracted and get ambushed by _another_ critter, she had to stay focused. And so she did, keeping on high alert as she proceeded toward the unknown city.

The sun was low on the horizon, casting elongated shadows around, when she heard a sound she recognized quite well. Horse hooves, rhythmically hitting pavement.

She tightens her grip on the stone knife as a man, riding on horseback, trotted from behind a curve of the road. He seemed to be wearing chainmail and an assortment of leathery protections, underneath a dark green tabard. Their eyes met through his helmet's eye sockets and he faltered for a moment - probably taking in her less than adequate appearance, unless it had to do with the bloodied weapon in her hand.

Either way, a small frown formed on his features as he led his monture up to her level.

"Young lady." he greeted her, carefully palming the sword hanging by his right hip. "You seem quite lost. Are you in need of assistance?"

"YES!"

Whoops, she'd yelled in his face.

Let's try that again.

"Huh, I mean, yes." she fidgeted. "I'm sorry, I've had an horrendous day. I lost my clothes and most of my hair to a madwoman, travelled for hours in the wild and had to defend myself from a wolf and two gigantic rats. I'm completely spent, in dire need of a bath and I just… sorry."

He hadn't expected her accent, she could tell. His was just as thick as the Briarheart's.

"It's… quite alright." he replied, visibly off-balance. "Perfectly understandable, really, after such an ordeal. The skeevers alone would warrant your reaction, they are terribly annoying creatures. As for the wolf, well, you were certainly lucky. They usually travel in packs."

Her, lucky? Her last weeks - months? - of captivity and the hole in her torso would beg to differ.

_Vigorously_.

"I believe you were on your way to Markarth?" asked the man, moving his hand away from his weapon. "It would take you about an hour on foot to reach, but I can take you there in about half that time, assuming you know how to ride."

Markarth, huh?

"I do -" she nodded, lowering her own guard. "- and that would be most helpful, thank you."

"Think nothing of it, it is the Guard's duty to help maintain the peace. And it sometimes involves not letting a distressed young lady walk needlessly." he chuckled.

A guard, his equipment certainly looked the part.

She accepted his offered hand and swung up the man's saddle, placing herself behind his armored body and grabbing onto the saddle. It wasn't a comfortable position by any stretch of the imagination, but it would do for thirty minutes.

Her help looked her way, nodded in approval and turned his horse around, sending it on its way back to the city of Markarth.

"Say, I do not want to sound nosy but, where are you from, exactly?" conversationally asked the man, after long minutes of a comfortable yet slightly awkward silence. "I've met my fair share of strangers over the years, but I do not recognize your accent."

Alright, how to answer?

She'd never heard of Markarth before and hadn't recognized a single landmark during her journey. Even the plants were mostly foreign to her and the animals… well, giant rats.

Conclusion, she wasn't anywhere near her father's kingdom and could probably answer honestly without too many repercussions.

"I'm not really from anywhere."

Or, you know, she could lie.

That worked too.

"I spent my life on the roads with the family and grabbed a bit of everything everywhere I went."

"Nomads, huh? You're a Khajiit or something?" asked the guard, apparently buy her story. "One of the human ones? Homes, Omhes, Ohmes… something like that."

"Uh… no."

Khajiit?

She didn't know what Khajiit were, but if some of them looked like humans while others did not, she'd prefer not to be associated with them. It sounded way too complicated.

"Breton, then?"

She nodded absentmindedly, glad that he was apparently consolidating her lie but hoping that she hadn't accidentally admitted to anything illegal or frowned upon.

"We could use more Bretons in the Guard. A couple of mages, an enchanter or two… would make dealing with Nchuand-Zel a lot easier."

"Nu-what?"

"Nchuand-Zel, Dwemer ruin under the keep." he replied, confusing her even more. "We have the occasional frostbite spider, falmer and automaton coming up the tunnels every now and again. Keeping them at bay can be challenging with steel only and Calcelmo isn't always available to banish them to Oblivion."

"…I see."

She didn't.

"And Calcelmo is... ?"

"Our court wizard, more than decent with conjuration magic and a complete Dwemer nuts. His nephew Aicantar's around too, but he's still in training I think."

A court wizard, of course. And the guard had suggested that Bretons, whoever they were, made for good mages and enchanters. Was magic that common around here? The idea didn't exactly sit well with her, after her last two encounters with witches. But again, magic had replaced her heart with a plant, so magic would probably be the only way to reverse the phenomenon.

… maybe she _should_ talk to a wizard?

She debated the issue in her head, weighing the advantages and disadvantages of revealing her new condition to this Calcelmo individual. On one hand, a trained magical practitioner may be able to help her. On the other, they may believe her to be in cahoots with the Forsworns and witches' coven, which could result in further incarceration, experimentation or execution… actually, the later didn't sound all that bad.

Her depressed thoughts ended about fifteen minutes later when their mount passed a bridge and massive stone fortifications suddenly revealed themselves, along with several similar buildings to the side. Now, she wasn't exactly knowledgeable when it came to architecture, housing across the kingdom of DunBroch was rather homogeneous and the former princess had hardly travelled outside of their frontiers, but she could tell that whoever had designed this had vastly different ideas of aesthetics than whoever had come up with the bastion housing the witch's den.

"That's Salvius' farm. Left Hand Mine is on the other side." commented the guard, nodding at a lone construction to their right, before repeating the gesture towards a small gathering of buildings separated from the main road by a river. "Markarth is just up the road, you can already see the walls."

And she could, it was hard to miss such massive stone constructs snuggled against the mountain and seemingly carved out of the rock itself, or the giant towers stretching to the sky from inside the city proper. She stared at the sight in silent awe as they drew closer and closer, passing a guard tower to reach an open area leading to twin sets of stairs, themselves ending on an esplanade and an imposing gate the color of copper.

"Young lady, welcome to City of Stone." declared her escort, stopping his horse and unmounting, offering his hand to get her down afterward. "If you'll excuse me a minute, I'll be back shortly."

Taking his mount's bridle in hand, he guided it to the nearby stables and talked to a man whom Merida assumed was the stable boy. The bridle changed hands and the guard left with a parting 'Thanks Cedran, I'll try to be quick.'

Walking up the stairs, he invited her to follow up to his two fellow guards, standing at attention by the city's entrance.

"Bjorn, Elhia." he greeted them. "Hard at work?"

"More than you, Ephris." retorted one of them, an armored woman standing on the right side of the gate.

"Clearly." chuckled the armored man on the other side. "The Jarl doesn't pay you to flirt with lost birds during patrol."

"Then the Jarl will be happy to learn that I don't." smiled her escort, Ephris apparently. "I found this young lady on the road to Whiterun. She's been robbed by a Forsworn and met a couple of critters on her way here."

"Must have been quite the day." commented Bjorn. "Didn't help that you had the misfortune to meet this guy, hey?"

"Go fuck a bear, Bjorn."

"I'm already sleeping with your wife, why would I want to add your mother to the mix?"

"Oh, you _didn't_ just go there."

"I think I did."

And the two quickly descended into a verbal match formed almost exclusively of inventive name-calling and queries regarding the other's family tree.

"Ignore them, they're always like that." smiled her fellow female, walking up to her. "I'm Elhia Thornhammer. First visit to our fair city, sister?"

Again with that word? Was it a casual greeting around here?

"Merida, no last name. It is, though I'd have liked for it to happen under better circumstances."

"Forsworns are a plague upon the Reach." she nodded. "I don't suppose you have any septim left or something of value that you could sell quickly for lodgings or supper?"

Septim was the name of the local currency then? Good to know.

Sadly, the woman was correct and she was painfully broke, which she confirmed. No hot bath or freshly made beds in her immediate future. No food either, but with her condition, she didn't exactly need any.

"Thought so." sighed the guard. "But hey, at least you're alive. Most of those savages would have just slit your throat and left your corpse to rot in a ravine."

Thinking about it, she would have prefered that over being experimented on by the witch.

"Anyway, you could spend the night down in the Warrens but I wouldn't recommend it. The place is crawling with beggars and thieves." carried on Elhia. "If Ephris gets his head out of Bjorn's backside, he could probably convince old Kleppr at the Silver-Blood Inn to give you a room, but you'd have to pay it back quickly. Either in gold, if you manage to acquire some, or by helping around the inn. Fixing up the rooms, cleaning the kitchen, diverting the clients if you can sing or tell a tale… that sort of things."

Well, she couldn't hold a tune to save her life, according to the triplets, but she knew some classic stories from DunBroch that would probably be quite novel in this place. And if worst came to worst, she'd just give a hand arounf the inn.

"That seems like the best solution." she concluded. "Where can I find this inn?"

"Just pass the front gate and it'll be the first building on your left." indicated the woman. "Here, I'll get you your guide back."

Marching up to the bickering men, she stepped in between them and cleared her throat.

"Enough you frost trolls, the lady Merida suffered enough today, she doesn't need to see your little rutting parade."

The undead princess choked on air.

"Hey!"

"Eliah!"

"Just calling it as I see it." she shrugged. "Now get moving, Elphris. Your visitor needs assistance and Jarl Igmund doesn't pay you to flirt with Bjorn either."

"Evil woman." complained the man, already moving and inviting Merida to follow. "As if I'd want anything to do with that pile of dragon dung."

"Tis not what you said last month."

"SOMEONE SPIKED THAT MEAD!"

"Perhaps, but you still said it, so it still counts."

Much to Merida's amusement, the insulted man muttered obscenities under his breath all the way to the inn, only stopping to discuss with the old couple in charge, and was back to it when he left to return to his patrol.

Suffice to say, her first impression of Markarth was fairly positive.

* * *

Finally alone in her temporary lodging, Merida closed the door for the night and disrobed in haste, eager to wash away the blood that still painted her from head to toe. Using a bucket of lukewarm water the inn's owner had provided her, she scrubbed away the grime and dirt from her body and hair, despairing at the state of the later. Her mother would have thrown a fit…

Feeling human-ish again, she changed into a rough but clean tunic the owner's wife had dug out of her wardrobe and let herself fall down on _the solid stone bed_ \- what was _wrong_ with the architects?!

Then she waited for sleep to come.

And waited some more.

And some more.

And...

Right, _undead_.

She didn't sleep anymore…

Ahah, unlife sucked.


End file.
